Morenton Vale
by Katie Havok
Summary: He watches her from the corner of his over-bright eyes, and she tips their foreheads together until he has the strength to go on. "Love has a way of making its own rules, I suppose," he finally decides and voices a watery laugh.


The heavy, wrought-iron fence and gate are bejeweled with rust yet admit them without complaint, swinging wide on well-oiled hinges before whispering shut in their wake. The couple does not notice, too absorbed in their task.

Newt weaves the hand not clutching a fresh-picked bouquet of wildflowers through hers while leading them between narrow, well-maintained rows. Tina squeezes his fingers reassuringly and tries her hardest not to look at the simple stones surrounding them, all etched with the names of memories, some of them young enough to inspire an internal shiver until she lays a protective hand on her stomach.

They eventually stop before a modest granite block, centered carefully on a gently sloping, wind-swept hill and carved with two familiar names. Newt swallows and bows his head, and she instinctively frees her hand while taking a half step back, allowing him a moment of solitude in his mourning. "Hello Mum, Dad," he murmurs, almost too low to hear, and sudden tears burn her eyes when he drops into a crouch to carefully arrange the flowers.

He clears the small plot of leaves and sticks before straightening. Newt's eyes are tear-bright when he turns to face her, and she threads their fingers together when he reaches for her hand while managing a wobbly smile. He smiles back, the expression soft and radiant and proud despite his damp eyes, before gently taking her elbow and tucking her protectively into his side.

"This is Tina," he says to the obdurate stone, and the capricious wind plays with the ends of her hair until she tucks it behind her ear. "I know I should have brought her here sooner, but…" He watches her from the corner of his over-bright eyes, and she tips their foreheads together until he has the strength to go on. "Love has a way of making its own rules, I suppose," he finally decides and voices a watery laugh.

Tina squeezes his fingers. "We're going to have a baby," she tells the memorial softly, and her recent husband sighs, a long, wet sound, while carefully laying his cheek on her shoulder. She slides her arm around his waist to draw him close and turns her face into another playful gust of wind. "We thought we should tell you, in person, that he and Theseus are no longer the last. There will be more Scamander's, and they will carry the burdens and pride of their name and legacy with dignity and grace." She shows a small but radiant smile, tilting her head toward the sun and closing her eyes. "Just as Newt always has, and just as he's taught me."

Newt rocks on the balls of his feet to kiss her cheek, before dropping his hands to gently, _protectively_ cradle the small but ever more noticeable bump rising beneath her navel. He lowers his eyes to gaze at it adoringly before returning them to hers. In his, she sees all the unspoken promises and fears, the old familiar burdens and the restless, ever-growing hope for a new, brighter future.

"It will be a boy," she speaks directly to his soul, "and he will always know that he is wanted, worthy, and loved by us both." Tina clears away the lump in her throat and leans into him when he wraps around her. He holds her almost desperately close as his tears soak into her skin, but she voices no complaints. Instead, she embraces him tenderly while murmuring soothing words in his ear, loving fingers carding through his hair until the wind drops and the shadows grow long with dusk.

Then she takes his hand to lead him down the hill and to the gate, which swings silently shut behind them when they leave the cemetery, identically-matched hopeful expressions pointed into the setting sun.

They don't look back, and the rusty barriers play lone witness to the leaves that dance and twirl in the air, only to coalesce into the brief outline of a couple holding hands atop the sloping hill. They watch the woman with the dark hair and the man in the blue coat until they are only specs on the horizon, holding a silent vigil for the promise of tomorrow before merging with the lowering dark.

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 **Author's note** : You can find me on Tumblr (username: katiehavok) if that's your thing. I would recommend seeking me out there—it's the best place to find me if you wish to keep track of my works, and I _always_ accept prompts and requests for Newt/Tina and Newt/Queenie. Thanks, as always, to Kemara for beta-reading and general encouragements.


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